


Patriae Pater - Plus One

by nirejseki



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s02e11 Turncoat, Gen, M/M, Mostly Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 15:31:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10468260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: In which Mick becomes a part of history.(my director's cut of Turncoat)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I got a request for "Mick/Georgie - on the Waverider or on some 2017 team up?"
> 
> This is not that fic. But it may serve as the prelude to that fic, if I ever get more inspiration for it. 
> 
> Also, this is about 90% inspired by the fact that George Washington was considered an extremely tall man because he was 6'2" in an era where people were a lot shorter - and the fact that Mick Rory, as portrayed by Dominic Purcell, is _also_ 6'2".

“I’m gonna strangle him,” Mick says again. He does not approve of the new Rip Hunter, who had been smirking at them as they were dragged away, leaving Sara in the dirt. You don’t do that shit to your crew.

Hell, he hadn’t even liked it when _Len_ had taken care of someone who wanted ‘out’; he knew Len did it when he was on his own, but Mick wasn’t interested in being a party to –

He’s not going to think about Len now.

“Even if they try to kill us,” he adds.

“They’re not going to kill us,” Washington says, also again. “As I’ve told you, I will talk to their commanding officer when they reach their camp and arrange a prisoner exchange. It’s the honorable thing to do.”

Mick rolls his eyes. He doesn’t believe in honor at all, but much less in war. He’s seen the movies. He tosses aside another scrap of his chip bag – the outside was dull and interesting, but the inside shiny enough that Amaya would have to be blind as a bat to miss it – and asks, “Who’s their commanding officer, anyway?”

“Lieutenant General Cornwallis,” Washington tells him.

Mick wrinkles his nose. “He the big kahuna?”

“The…what?”

“Big fish. Man of the hour. The boss man.”

“Ah. No, General William Howe is responsible for the overall British effort. After him, it would be General Henry Clinton.”

“I always liked Clinton,” Mick says nostalgically. The '90s had been a pretty decent time.

“I must admit I didn’t know him,” Washington says, blinking. “Are you from New York, then?”

“Keystone,” Mick says with a shrug. “But I’ve visited New York.”

“Keystone…I’m not familiar with that county. Is that out west?”

“Yep.”

“You must tell me more about it. When I worked as a surveyor, I – ah, I see we’re here.”

They get led up to the man in the fancy wig.

“General Washington, as I live and breathe,” he says, smile on his smug little face. He’s a good foot shorter than Washington or Mick, but then again, most of these assholes are.

“Lieutenant General Cornwallis,” Washington says, inclining his head. “I would've preferred to meet you on the field of battle.” 

“I must give credit where credit is due. I have a new colonel who's most impressive. One might say he's ahead of his time,” Cornwallis drawls. 

“If you two are done yapping, I'd like my last meal,” Mick interjects. The way this going, it could take hours; he’s not Len, to enjoy the endless byplay of words. 

“Take these men to my tent, and have them well fed,” Cornwallis says. “You'll both be hung in the morning.” 

“Sounds exciting,” Mick mutters. “What'd I tell you, Georgie boy?” 

“I am an officer in the Continental Army, sir,” Washington protests. “You must treat me as a prisoner of war in a manner which is befitting of my rank.” 

“This is not a war. This is a rebellion. And you will be hanged for treason against King George III!”

Mick sees Rip hovering at the edges of the crowd, collecting a team of men for who knows what purpose. Probably to go cause trouble.

Means it’s Mick’s job to stop it.

Washington is currently bargaining for Mick’s life – good man, albeit wrong about Mick’s level of guilt – so Mick waits till he’s done with that and interjects, “Good place for a hanging.”

Washington shoots him a mildly irritated look, while Cornwallis looks smug.

“Pity Howe can’t be here,” Mick says. “But I’m sure he’ll appreciate getting your message about it being over and done with without his input.”

Cornwallis’ smile freezes.

“Of course,” Mick says, scratching idly under his collar. It’s made of pretty rough-spun wool, and he suspects he might’ve developed fleas already, just from being manhandled by redcoats. “I’m sure he’ll understand why you couldn’t send a message. Continental forces are pretty scary, after all.”

“We’re hardly scared of your rag-tag little band of rebels,” Cornwallis scoffs, almost on cue. 

Mick smiles with teeth. “But you’re still shaking in your britches about the thought of sending any of your men through us,” he says. “Or is it that you’re looking to get the credit yourself? Not that that’s a problem, of course.”

“Every man for himself, and bugger the rest, is it?” Washington asks. Mick glances at him approvingly. That was almost maliciously innocent. Georgie’s twigged to Mick’s game and he’s backing Mick’s play. Mick appreciates that in a man.

“Way it is for you Brits, ain’t it?” Mick adds in. “No argument from us. We get it.”

Cornwallis’ back straightens with what Mick likes to imagine is an almost audible pop. “Are you questioning my honor as a gentleman?”

“Yes,” Washington says. “Quite blatantly, if you’ll notice.” He pauses for a moment, appearing contemplative. “I believe my private is also calling you a coward.”

Okay, fine. Mick’s a big man. He’ll admit when he was wrong. Georgie’s not half bad.

“I’m sure whatever men you send’ll make it through,” Mick says encouragingly. “You can’t all be half-assed pansies, however you dress.”

Georgie appears to be fighting a smile.

Cornwallis knows he’s being played. That’s what Mick likes best; when they know they’re being played and you know you’re playing them, and they know you know, and there’s still _nothing they can do about it_.

This is why honor is stupid.

“I will prepare a message to General Howe informing him I’ve captured you and that I intend to hang you as soon as I have either his approval or his presence,” Cornwallis says very stiffly. “Lieutenant Ross!”

A nearby man snaps to attention.

“Fetch Colonel Hunter and inform him that he will be carrying a message for me as quickly as he is able,” Cornwallis instructs.

Perfect.

That’ll keep Rip busy for a while, undoubtedly to his annoyance.

Mick and Georgie get put into a tent. There are some guards outside, but otherwise it’s not particularly notable.

Georgie grins at Mick. “Well done,” he says approvingly. “I must admit, I wouldn’t have thought of that – immediately, at least.”

Snarky bastard. Mick grins back. “Sure you would’ve,” he drawls. “If there’s one thing you can always count on fucking everything up, it’s bureaucracy.”

Georgie arches his eyebrows. “Bureaucracy?”

“You know. When everything’s got to go through four different offices for approval, and you’ve gotta get three different signatures, except one guy’s on his lunch break and the other’s been transferred to a new department and they haven’t replaced him yet, and all you want to do is get something simple fix but they want to have at least three copies of your petition in triplicate…”

“Oh,” Georgie says. “ _That_.”

“That,” Mick confirms.

“Bugger that.”

“Here, here,” Mick says approvingly, and goes to see if he can scout out the way the shift changes by peeping out the tent flap. Some things never change.

By the time he’s done with that, Georgie’s started scribbling something. 

“When they change shifts, I’m going to bust us out of here,” Mick tells him. It’s a shitty plan, but there’s nothing like a shitty plan to get a better planner’s brain to start ticking.

One time when Len –

No. Not thinking about that.

“Are you so eager to die?” Georgie says, and suddenly he’s back to his hoity-toity mannerisms and speeches about honor and principles and a goddamn _love letter_ to his wife and what it means to be an American.

Of course, it’s all bullshit, which is what Mick tells him. 

“You don't know the first thing about being an American,” he says, crossing his arms. “We're misfits, outcasts, and we're proud of it. If they attack in formation, we pop them off from the trees. If they challenge you to a duel, you raid their camp at night. And if they're gonna hang you, you fight dirty and you never, ever give up. That's the American way. What's it gonna be, George?”

Georgie’s eyes narrow. “Don’t think you can skillfully toy with me the way you did Cornwallis,” he warns.”

“You may be a big guy,” Mick tells him. “But I’ve carted around bigger. You wanna help me plan this, or you want to be a sack of potatoes over my shoulder, it’s your choice. But we’re busting out.”

Georgie looks at Mick for a long moment. “I’m listening.”

Mick grins. 

With what Mick knows about Rip, he suspects there will be a very short delay before the letter with Howe’s approval arrives. Georgie agrees with him that Cornwallis will accept a decent forgery that arrived far too quickly as being sufficient to cover his ass –

“CYA,” Georgie says, shaking his head and looking gleeful. “A shortening to be used in letters, I presume? I must tell Martha of it – she will enjoy it tremendously. It quite captures the spirit without losing any of the spice.”

– so they’ve bought themselves a few hours, at most, but a few hours is better than none. 

“I’ll go scout out the – what do you call them?” Mick asks. “The place where they hang you.”

“Gallows?”

“Yeah, that.” 

Georgie nods, tapping his lips. “Perhaps if there was a distraction when they're all focused on the execution…”

Mick grins. “Ka-boom.”

Georgie looks at him in silent question.

Mick mimics an explosion with his hands. “Ka-boom.”

Georgie’s grin looks a little like Len’s in the low light, all wicked and understanding. 

“How will you set it up?” Georgie asks. “The gunpowder I understand, but if we want it to be adequately impressive…”

“Don’t worry about that,” Mick says dismissively. “You’re gonna lecture me.”

“I’m…what?”

“Lecture me. About something. Politeness or something. And you’re gonna do it _loud_ , you get me?”

“I do indeed. Godspeed, Mr. Rory.”

“Mick’s fine,” Mick tells him. “Mr. Rory’s reserved for British assholes.”

He slips out the back of the tent as Georgie starts loudly talking about something called ‘decorum’ and ‘propriety’ which sound like crap to Mick, but whatever. Georgie’s really giving it his all, pacing back and forth and waving his hands and _quoting things in Latin_. It’s a masterful display of showmanship, given that the guy he's lecturing ain't even there. 

Mick might not be familiar with the exact mechanics of guns back in ye olden days, but he knows how to start a fire. The gunpowder is stacked in a good place, right in line of the new gallows being constructed, and a touch of kerosene on the barrels and the surrounding area will guarantee a good fire goes up _fast_. 

God, Mick loves a good accelerant. 

Mick also plants a few surprises. That involves going through the camp somewhat more thoroughly than he'd originally planned, but it's not a problem. He’s pulled off his very American-ish jacket and left it in the tent, which means it’s chilly as fuck, but the first time someone looks up at him and starts to look suspicious, Mick makes a long-suffering face and mimes a hand of cards, which gets him a laugh. Him offering the content of his flask with a conspiratorial smirk gets him a friendly punch on the shoulder.

Them drinking a swig out of the flask gets him raised eyebrows of approval and a spare redcoat, which Mick appreciates wholeheartedly despite the bloodstains indicating it's a spare due to previous usage. And probably has fleas.

Well, it certainly makes sneaking around easier.

By the time he gets back, he's got two over-sized redcoats (never show a thief where you keep the spares), a working knowledge of a flintlock rifle, the basics of a grenade in his pockets and two maps with 'X's all over 'em that he picked from the pocket of the guy with the fancy hat.

He figures Georgie will appreciate that.

By the time he gets back, Georgie's started in with the 'when I was a child' stories with a vaguely pinched look on his face that eases when he sees Mick.

"- and let that be a lesson to you," he concludes, then exhales.

"Nice," Mick says. "Lesson learned. Here's what I've got." And he lays out his loot.

"Mick Rory, you absolute scoundrel," Georgie says, giant grin on his face. "I approve entirely. Were you with Sons of Liberty before joining up?"

"I was never much for organized institutions," Mick says honestly.

"And yet you joined the army?"

"I said _organized_."

Georgie actually guffaws at that. "Well, then," he says with a smirk. "Let us show them what our _disorganized_ institution can do, shall we?"

"Let’s," Mick replies, and grins. 

"You're certain that they will not put you in chains?"

"Even if they do, I can get out of 'em," Mick says. "I had a buddy who could pop his wrist out of joint to get out of one; now he was a regular Houdini."

"Hou- sorry, what's that?"

"Means escape artist."

"I would hardly say escaping was an _art_."

"Sure was the way my buddy did 'em."

There was the sound of marching outside. Mick and Georgie share a look and stand up straight.

Cornwallis comes in, smug and smirking, letter in hand.

"I would have thought you were above forgeries," Georgie says, looking down his nose at the Brit. "But perhaps not. My death warrant, I assume?"

The smugness pops like a balloon. “It is hardly –”

“The fastest horse in the world could not have made that distance,” Georgie says. “Or are you claiming that your newest colonel has devised a way to travel beyond our imagining?”

“Well, he has –”

“You know, my ma used to be the believing sort of naif,” Mick tells Georgie. “Mostly lost money out of it.”

“Better money than honor,” Georgie replies.

“The orders – which are _legitimate_ – are for your immediate execution,” Cornwallis snaps. “Men, take them.”

"Very well," Georgie says, and permits himself to be escorted. Mick follows, amused; Georgie really looks like he's doing them a favor by letting them take him to kill him. It's all in the shoulders and neck, in Mick's opinion.

They get all the way to the last words bit before Georgie decides it's time to give the signal.

"Yes, I have some last words," he says archly. "In fact, I’ve learned a new one from my private - _ka-boom_."

Mick drops his meek prisoner act, grabs a gun, and fires at the tubs of gunpowder that he tricked up with accelerant. He’s relieved to see that the musket doesn’t lock up or misfire.

It makes a beautiful blast.

He drops that gun, grabs another, and uses his next bullet to clear the gallows and bull-rush Georgie off of it, yank off the rope binding his arms, and then they're in the thick of the brawl.

"Back!" Georgie calls, and Mick retreats with him, which is probably a good idea because the element of surprise is all well and good but the Brits are bringing out their drummer and those muskets have bayonets attached - perfect for close combat. Definitely time to run.

"The new weapons Colonel Hunter provided -" Georgie says as they're jogging away.

"I wouldn't worry," Mick says.

"Oh?"

Mick smirks. "Oh, yeah." On his travels through the British camp the other night, he'd taken a bit of time to lay a few misapprehensions around. It'd been surprisingly easy - he'd thought he'd have to stay quiet, since his British accent was shit, but it turned out all the Brits talked like regular Americans back in the day. Well, except the toffs. They'd had fun trying to guess where he was from - apparently most of them thought that Keystone resembled a place called Newcastle.

It was also remarkably easy to convince them that machine guns were experimental weapons nicknamed 'the friendly fire' because of their tendency to pump out bullets so fast that the recoil jarred your arm and killed your friends before you even blinked. 

Half the troops - hell, half the officers - wouldn't use them now if you'd paid them, at least until they were flogged into compliance, and the other half still thought you needed to dump gunpowder down the front of them first, which wouldn't help their operation. 

Let's just say Mick wasn't too worried about a machine-gun bullet to the back; not anytime soon, anyway. 

"We need to go to a river before they catch our scent," Georgie says.

"Yeah," Mick says and produced the red coats.

"They'll see those for miles, Private."

"I know. S'why I'm ditching 'em in whatever way we ain't going. After that, though, this cross-country bullshit's all on you."

Georgie was rather clever about it, too, laying false scents and zigzagging around, but eventually they were pretty sure they'd lost the fuckers and found themselves a nice abandoned cabin, half-burned down, to rest for a while.

"It's hardly acceptable for a gentleman to even contemplate," Georgie says, frowning at it.

"Good thing I ain't a gentleman," Mick says, tossing himself down on the bed, which was way too small. "Fuck my feet. They cut off people's heads to make them fit on these things?"

Georgie laughs. "My cot is custom made," he says ruefully. "I encounter the same issue otherwise."

Mick squints at him. "You're rich," he concludes. "Great."

"I am indeed. You object?"

"On moral grounds."

"Moral grounds?"

"Sure," Mick says. "The rich mostly care about making themselves richer, or not getting any poorer, and blame the poor who've got no way to climb up for being poor."

"That's hardly true."

"Uh-huh," Mick says. "And you made all your money on your own, I bet."

"I grew my inheritance -"

"No inheritance, no growth. Try again."

Georgie's face does some funny things before he comes to a decision and cracks a rueful smile. "I married a very wealthy woman, which was of considerable aid to me when I fell vastly in debt despite my best efforts."

Mick laughs, which turns into a yelp when Georgie crawls into the bedding next to him. "Uh," he says. "Personal space?"

"We ought to rest for a while if we're to make my camp by sundown," Georgie says like it's obvious. "And it's quite cold."

"That'd be the river water on your boots," Mick says.

"Indeed," Georgie replies, but otherwise seems unmoved.

Well, if Georgie doesn't mind, Mick's not going to object. He yawns and throws a friendly arm over the other man, mentally does a little “ha-ha, Len, look what I’m doing” jig in his mind, remembers Len is dead, and then goes straight to sleep to avoid thinking about it further. 

He wakes up a few hours later with Georgie’s face only a few inches away.

Mick blinks.

Georgie regards him steadily.

“Your breath stinks,” Mick offers.

Georgie snorts. “Yes,” he says. “I suppose so. We should go soon – I have an army to return to. Though Colonel Knox has made such preparations, I suspect he would continue whether or not I was there to participate.”

“Crossing the Delaware?” Mick asks, then glances outside at the dimming light. It’s still mid-afternoon, but there are storm clouds brewing. “Bad weather for it.”

“I have little doubt that if the river freezes over in its entirety, Cornwallis will have ordered an attack. We must hope for ill weather to keep them unawares – but not too ill to make the crossing.”

“Somehow,” Mick says, “I think it’ll go all right.”

“You can be on my boat,” Georgie says.

“Um,” Mick says. “Okay?”

He’d pretty much been expecting to be rescued by now, since history was back on track, but then again, maybe by delaying Rip by several hours had distracted the Legends.

Or the Legends ditched him. That’s a possibility.

Well, at least he knows Washington doesn’t drown in the Delaware.

“Okay,” he says again. 

“Since you’re obviously not a real private.”

“I…could be?”

Georgie looks at him.

“Yeah, no.”

“Do you even have a regiment you’re pretending to be assigned to?”

“…pretty sure we didn’t think I’d be here this long.”

“What _was_ your goal?”

“Saving your life, mostly,” Mick says. “I’m American, and I’d like to keep being American.”

“How would you not be American if I died?”

“Just go with it,” Mick says. “It gives me a headache to think about it, and I don’t got the fancy words I need to make it clear. But you need to live and you need to cross the Delaware if America’s gonna be independent.”

“You’re very certain of our success,” Georgie says with a sigh. “I wish I were the same. Our retreat from New York was – not particularly good.”

“You’ll do fine,” Mick says gruffly.

“I pray to God it be so,” Georgie says, then turns and squints at the light. “Another hour, I’d say; then we head out.”

Mick nods.

Georgie turns back. “And how should we pass that time, I wonder?”

Now, Mick’s been in prison, where the chance of seeing a girl is non-existent and you do with what you’ve got. He’s been out drinking at the gay bars, where a man like him can get bought a drink instead of doing the buying. 

If this was anyone but _George frigging Washington_ , he’d assume he’s being hit on.

Actually.

Even with that, it kinda came off that way.

“Uh,” Mick says.

“Only if you’re partial, of course,” Georgie says.

No, Mick is _definitely_ being hit on.

“I’m partial,” he says, because, uh, he might be a grieving widower but he’s pretty sure Len’s ghost just rose up out of his grave to yell ‘You’d better hit that with the force of a cannonball right now, Mick Rory, or I’m gonna disown you!’ because how many times do you get a chance to make it with a _Founding Father_. “Assuming we’re talking the same language about what we’re both partial to, that is.”

Georgie smirks.

Turns out they are. 

It’s nothing complex – for one thing, the bed is too small, they don’t want to muss up their clothing too much, and it’s fucking cold – but Mick’s never said no to getting and giving a helping hand before, and he’s _certainly_ not planning to now.

Also, it's _George Washington_. That’s just fucking _awesome_.

Mick is still vaguely star-struck afterwards during clean-up, which at least is pretty easy – Georgie produces a handkerchief, Mick does the cleaning, they’re both sated and pleased. 

“Shall we?” Georgie says, nodding at the door.

“Hell yeah,” Mick says.

He regrets it about seven hours later, when he’s on a _goddamn boat_. In the middle of a _hurricane_. “Fuck this,” Mick says through chattering teeth.

“Chance to fight for your country,” another guy says. He sounds excessively cheerful through his thick Irish accident. 

Mick shoves him into the water.

Georgie’s hand snaps out and catches the man by the back of the jacket, yanking him out of the water, plopping him back onto the boat.

The man coughs wetly.

Mick hands him a flask.

“You're a ruddy bastard –” the man takes a slug. “– with mighty fine taste in whiskey.”

“You can finish it,” Mick grunts.

“ _Good_ man,” the man says approvingly. “John Haslet.”

“Mick Rory.”

“Pass it over,” another man grunts. “We’re not all from the swamps of Delaware.”

“Shove it, Trumbull. Not like _Connecticut’s_ better.”

In the interests of peace, Mick reaches into his pocket and passes his second flask – the one with the good stuff – to the second guy. 

“Good man,” the second says. 

Then he takes a sip.

“Saints and angels,” he says, sounding vaguely awed. “I'll immortalize you and your name will go down in history _forever_.”

Mick snorts. It’s not an unusual reaction to that stuff. 

Then he reaches out and grabs the back of Georgie’s coat, since the general's standing for balance and looking like he's about to teeter over into the water, and that would just be undignified.

“Much obliged, Private Rory,” Georgie says. 

Mick grunts. He’d say something cutting, but it’s cold and it’s wet and there’s a goddamn hurricane blowing. 

He should’ve paid more attention to seeing if that famous painting had had _icebergs_ in it before agreeing to this.

But they make it to the other side, all intact, Mick gets his flasks back, refilled with something foul but exceedingly alcoholic, and they march.

Oh, god, do they march.

Mick disapproves of marching.

“You have absolutely no conception of soldiering, do you?” one of the several men with bags filled with paper that followed Georgie around. He sounds amused.

“It’s not really my element,” Mick grunts. 

“At least you have boots,” the man points out.

“No kidding,” Mick says. He's noticed some of the other people don't, which is just awful. 

“I remember my first battle,” the man says. “Sucked balls.”

“I like you,” Mick says.

The man grins at him. “Best of luck to you, Private,” he says. “If you survive, I’ve no doubt we’ll be seeing more of you soon enough.”

And then he winks.

Mick is the first one to admit he doesn’t have much book learning or any of that crap, but he likes to think he knows people pretty well.

He is _totally_ surrounded by people who’ve _been partial_ to Georgie, isn’t he.

“You dog,” he says admiringly under his breath. “Shoulda put you on the hundred instead of Franklin.”

“Pssst!” something hisses in his ear. “Mick!”

That sounds like Haircut.

“Haircut?” Mick whispers.

“We’re here to rescue you!”

Mick rolls his eyes. “About time. I think I’ve got fleas.”

“Gross. We’ll meet you by the camp, pick you up.”

Sure enough, by the time they get to where the impromptu camp has been set up – mostly to wait for the other groups they were meeting on this end – Sara and the rest of them are there.

Georgie motions for Mick to follow him inside and raises a flask. “To fighting like an American,” he says, grinning.

“I always do,” Mick says. Then it occurs to him. “Say, Georgie, I’ve got some thoughts on the criminal justice system –”

Georgie looks interested, but then one of the guys with the papers pops his head in. “The troops are all across,” he says. “No casualties. We’re awaiting you outside, General Washington.”

“And we have to go,” Sara says, entering behind him with Stein and Nate at her side, smile fixed on her face. “C’mon, Mick.”

Georgie eyes her and nods a little. “I don't understand much of what I've seen, but the world is changing. And you are no small part of that. Sir.” 

“Well, Georgie, it's,” Mick tries to find the right words, and settles on, “it's been a pleasure.”

Georgie smirks.

It also turns out the so-called love letter Georgie had tried to have him deliver was a battle strategy. 

“I wanted to ensure my men would receive it in the event of my death. The Hessians will be receiving a Christmas surprise this evening,” he says with a grin. 

“You sneaky bastard,” Mick says approvingly. “Not such a gentleman after all.” 

Georgie laughs and puts his hands on Mick’s shoulders. “With your rebel spirit, your steadfastness, your crass yet effective use of language, you, Mr. Rory, represent the best of what our new nation can be.” 

Mick blinks. 

Sara blinks.

Stein blinks.

Nate blinks.

Mick’s pretty sure Ray’s there, floating, too small to see, but he’d bet he’s blinking right now too.

“Uh,” he says. “Yes, yes, I do.”

And then he gives Georgie a close hug and heads out with the others.

“That was weird,” Nate says. “George Washington thinks _Mick_ is a good American.”

“He must be confused,” Sara says dismissively.

Mick contemplates telling them about the whole horny bastard bit, but figures they wouldn’t believe him.

He just thinks about the two maps with the Xs that he slipped into Georgie’s pocket – maps that looked pretty similar to the ‘battle strategies’ that Georgie had slipped into his ‘love letter’ – and grins.

Then they get back on the ship and Sara asks Gideon if the timeline’s been fixed and –

_Goddamn fucking Trumbull._

Turns out he actually _did_ immortalize Mick forever by plopping him straight in the background of a bunch of his sketches and paintings from the period, and that’s what inspired some asshole of a sculptor to add him to the set of statuary that got made permanent in Washington D.C. by _Nixon_ of all people.

Though, in fairness, that _was_ the good whiskey. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So what’d I miss?” Len asks, now that he was back where he belonged and the initial celebrations were over, though Mick had some additional celebrations in mind for later.

“Ninjas,” Mick says immediately.

“Oh _god_ ,” Len says.

“I got knighted by Queen Guinevere,” Ray says.

“I’m Captain now,” Sara says.

“Dinosaurs,” Nate says.

“Mobsters in 1930s Chicago,” Amaya says.

“Einstein,” Stein says.

“I slept with George Washington,” Mick adds.

“You _saved_ George Washington,” Sara corrects.

“No, I’m pretty sure he meant what he said,” Len says, looking delighted. “You fucked a Founding Father, Mick?”

“Hell yes I did,” Mick says proudly.

“George Washington wasn’t _gay_ ,” Nate says.

“He was in the _army_ ,” Len says dismissively. “And without central heating, too. How was he?”

“No, but – it doesn’t – _Mick_ didn’t –”

“I did,” Mick says. “It was decent enough. Mostly ‘cause it was Georgie. Star-struck, you know?”

Len’s nodding. 

“Are you _serious_?” Sara says. “I can’t believe you –”

“You’re Lancelot,” Mick points out. “And you fucked the Queen of France while we were getting _shot at_. Least I did my fucking when it wasn’t bothering anyone else. Or the timeline.”

“– okay, shutting up now.”

“I have a _statute_ ,” Mick tells Len.

“We should go back and have a threesome,” Len replies.

“We should _not_ ,” Rip says, sounding horrified.

“Who’s ‘we’? You’re not invited anyway,” Mick tells him. "And you're not even the Captain anymore."

“Regardless: _no_ ,” Rip says firmly. “ _Absolutely not_.” 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Okay,” Nate says. “We need to convince George Washington to come with us. We need to convince the _Father of the American People_ to just up and leave behind his commitment to his country to help us.”

“To help us save the timeline and the world,” Ray points out.

“I know, it’s just – I feel like it’s going to be a tough sell. He's doing his duty to his country already, you know?”

“When are we picking him up from?” Sara asks.

“1794. Two years into his second term as President. How are we going to approach this?”

“Let me try,” Mick says.

He spots Georgie walking through a garden, a pensive look on his face.

“Hey, Georgie boy,” he says. 

Georgie looks up and his face clears. “Mr. Rory,” he says. “No – you prefer Mick, correct?”

“That’s right,” Mick says, grinning. Georgie remembers him! “So, if I said you could have a several week long vacation and get back in time for dinner this evening, would you agree to come save the world?”

“Lead the way,” Georgie says.

“That was – less trouble than I thought it would be,” Nate says, blinking a bit.

“You don’t have any questions?” Ray asks Georgie.

“I’m certain Mick will explain everything in time,” Georgie replies with a shrug. 

“You’re very easy-going,” Sara says. “More than I remember.”

“Perhaps,” Georgie says. “Mick, what was that wonderful phrase you coined – the one about how government works – or rather, doesn’t work?”

“It was – uh –”

“Bureaucracy?” Len suggests, because he knows Mick’s brain better than Mick does.

“That’s the one,” Georgie says. “I repeat my sentiments on the subject, which I expressed to you on the previous occasion of our meeting.”

“Was this the one where he said ‘bugger that’?” Len asks Mick.

“Yep,” Mick replies, grinning. “Georgie, this is my partner, Leonard Snart. You’ll like him.”

Len sticks out a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you,” he drawls with a faint smile. “Heard you never got to talk with Mick about his thoughts on the criminal system. Got some myself. We’ll have to talk more about it.”

“You most certainly will _not_ ,” Rip says.

“Fuck you, Rip,” Len replies, still smiling. He’s been saying that a lot. 

Mick slings a friendly arm over Georgie’s shoulder. “C’mon, Georgie,” he says. “Lots to catch you up on, I think.”

“I’m certain,” Georgie says dryly. “What manner of contraption are we in, to begin with?”

“It’s a ship,” Mick says. “It travels through time.”

“That seems useful.”

“Not as much as you’d think…”


End file.
